On a Dead Violet
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
| The odor from the flower is gone Which like thy kisses breathed on me; The color from the flower is flown Which glowed of thee and only thee! A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form, It lies on my abandoned breast; And mocks the heart, which yet is warm, With cold and silent rest. I weep--my tears revive it not; I sigh--it breathes no more on me: Its mute and uncomplaining lot Is such as mine should be. |
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